


Silence

by grimeslincoln



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimeslincoln/pseuds/grimeslincoln
Summary: “You could stay,” he suggests, quieter and more hesitant than he intended. “If you want,” hastily tacked on to the end, for fear of sounding desperate.Callum’s double take would be amusing, if Ben didn’t suddenly feel so vulnerable.“I mean,” he lifts one hand from Callum’s hip to scratch at his eyebrow, a nervous habit, eyes dropping to one of the buttons on Callum’s shirt, “save you almost killing yourself trying to get home in your state. And sounds like you’d get a better nights kip ’ere, anyway.”or, what happened after Friday's episode.





	Silence

Ben isn’t sure how long they stay like that, bodies fused together in the middle of the kitchen, Callum’s breath warm and thick with alcohol on his neck, the burgundy fabric of his shirt slowly pooling black from the steady drip of Callum’s tears. Ben’s gentle words of reassurance eventually fade into silence, the only sound audible is the faint echo of the television in the other room and the footsteps of passers-by on the street outside, and after a while, God knows how long, the tension drops out of Callum’s shoulders, his body deflating as though someone had stuck a pin in him. Part of Ben suspects that if he took a sudden step back, the other man would just crumple straight to the floor.

Every now and then Callum will stir, weight shifting ever so slightly from one leg to the other, and every single time Ben assumes he’s about to pull away, readies himself for the awkward apology, the hasty exit, the bitter loneliness that will settle itself, heavy, in his chest once the door bounces shut and declares him alone. But instead, Callum will tighten his grip, pulling him impossibly closer until Ben can feel every line and curve of the other man’s body flush against his own, will burrow his face deeper into the crevice where the muscle of neck and shoulder meet.

And so Ben takes what he can get, relishes the feel of Callum’s fingertips ghosting along his spine, breathes in the scent of faint wood polish and cheap shampoo (tinged slightly with beer) that has started to become so familiar to him, even allows his own hands to slide up and cradle the back of Callum’s head, resists the urge to thread his fingers through the strands of gel-free hair at the nape of his neck. 

They could have been stood there for minutes, or maybe hours, when Ben hears the television click off in the lounge and the tell-tale grunt of exertion as Phil pushes himself off the sofa. A shadow cuts through the yellow light creeping under the door from the hallway and there’s a distinct shuffling sound as his dad deliberates whether to enter the kitchen or not. He must think better of it, because the next thing Ben hears is the high-pitched creek of the second from last stair as he drags himself up to bed. Callum must catch on to it as well because his arms finally loosen from where they’ve been wrapped around Ben’s torso (so tight that Ben would be surprised if they hadn’t left an indentation) and he straightens up a touch, although still not quite returning to his usual, towering height. 

Ben follows his lead, pulls his head back from where it’s been hooked over the curve of Callum’s shoulder, chin numb from being rested there for so long. They’re still firmly in each other’s space, chest to chest, arms circled loosely like their own little force field, knees knocking together as they stand. Callum is still hunched to a head below his natural stance, his face so close that Ben can feel his hair brushing against his own forehead, could count each and every one of his damp eyelashes if he chose, can just about make out the tear tracks that stain his blotchy cheeks and the way his irises fade from bright azure to almost black at the edges. 

His vision traces over the soft curve of Callum’s cupid bow, allows himself a second to consider how easy it would be to surge forwards and capture the other man’s slightly swollen lips with his own, knows he wouldn’t face any resistance if he tried. He can still taste Callum’s mouth on his, remnants of stale alcohol and breath mints heavy on his tongue, wants to taste it again, longer this time, craves the way he knows Callum’s body moves and feels beneath him, wants to once again draw out the guttural, throaty moans that had broken through the silence of the park, the same ones that had provided the soundtrack to his dreams for months ever since. 

He indulges himself in that moment of want, and then he takes a step back, out of Callum’s reach and the arms, that have been around him for so long they feel like an extension of himself, drop away. He ducks his head, but not quick enough to miss the way Callum’s face falls, and buries his hands in his pockets to fight the urge to pull the other man back into his orbit. 

Silence, weighed down by words unspoken, descends over them and for once, even Ben is lost on how to fill it; typical that the one instance words evade him would be the time he most wants to say the right thing. He chances a glances at Callum, immediately regretting it the second he sees the downturned pout of his lips and the hurt look in his eyes, and instead shifts his attention to the window, notes how the sky has transitioned from a deep blue hue to a muted grey.

“It’s getting late…” he starts, mostly just to break the silence, but wants to kick himself upon the realisation of how dismissive he sounds. 

Callum must think so too because his mouth parts in to a little ‘o’ shape, as if he’s caught on to what Ben is suggesting and he sways, almost imperceptibly, closer to the back door. 

“Oh. Oh, yeah, ’course, I should get going-” 

“You don’t have to-” Ben cuts him off, sudden and sounding considerably more desperate than he would’ve liked. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that he wants Callum to do, or where they go from here, but he knows for a certainty that he doesn’t want him to leave. 

A dainty crease forms between Callum’s brows, like a wrinkle in silk, confusion plain on his face, and Ben finds himself wanting to soften it out with his thumb. He quickly shelves that idea, knows he’s being a soft touch. 

“You’re right, it’s late,” Callum clears his throat, dried up from crying. He’s swaying slightly from side to side, blinking his eyes open every few seconds, as though he’s trying considerably hard to appear sober. “I’ll be dead on my feet tomorrow if I don’t get to bed soon.”

“Careful, you keep saying stuff like than an’ Jay’ll be putting you in one of those coffins next,” Ben chuckles lightly, the sound forced even to his own ears, desperate to lighten the stilted atmosphere that has wedged its way between them.

Callum laughs half-heartedly, after a beat, as though it took his alcohol riddled brain a minute to register what was said, and for the first time since they parted, he meets Ben’s gaze. His eyes are glassy, whether it’s from inebriation or emotion Ben can’t tell, and he’s struck by how much longing there is behind them, wonders if the same look is mirrored in his own eyes; knows it probably is if they convey even a fraction of how he feels. They stand there, the countertop pressing hard in to Ben’s back, anchoring him to the moment, and Callum hesitating by the door, eye line dropping south every few seconds before he catches himself and returns to Ben’s face. 

Ben wants to say something, anything, wants to tell Callum, show him, just how much he wants him. He wants to let the other man know that he’s all he’s been able to think about for weeks, months even; the feeling of phantom fingers in his hair haunting his sleep, a familiar, but also completely foreign, warmth bursting in his chest every time he sees him across the square, the memory of calloused, inexperienced hands and taut muscles from army training, slightly softened by time away, present in his mind every time he takes himself in hand. Even considers telling Callum that he hasn’t so much as kissed another bloke in weeks; the dating apps on his phone hadn’t been opened in so long that he’d turned off the notifications and the last time he’d brought someone back into his bed, the same week as the stag do, it had felt so empty in comparison to their night in the park that he hadn’t tried again since.

He stays silent. 

“I’d better go,” Callum breaks first, slurring slightly around the pronunciation of the ‘t’ sound, when it becomes apparent that Ben has no intention of making any sort of move. 

Ben bites down on his lower lip, teeth catching on the skin, notices the way Callum’s eyes follow the movement, and then nods, just a slight inclination of his head, but it’s enough to inspire the other man to make his decision.

Callum swallows, hesitates for one more second, as though making certain that Ben won’t change his mind, before turning to the door. Except, his drunken brain completely underestimates the distance and the hand reaching for the doorknob ends up grasping at nothing but thin hair, sending him stumbling forwards, ridiculously long legs tripping over themselves. He rights himself in a split second, miraculously managing to remain completely upright, but before Ben can even process what he’s doing, he’s lunging forwards, firm hands gripping Callum’s sides, under his blazer, to steady him, a soft stream of “hey, hey, steady on,” spilling from his lips.

And suddenly Callum is there, towering above him, against him, all around him and Ben hates how something immediately settles within him at the closeness, all the tension in his body melting away like ice and leaving him in a state of ease. 

Callum appears startled by Ben’s sudden proximity, blinking down at him with a slightly dazed expression that suggests he might be seeing double, hands instinctively coming up to rest on Ben’s shoulders, using him as a grounding force. 

“M’alright, m’alright.”

“You nearly just went headfirst through my back door.” Ben quirks an eyebrow; his face suggests he disagrees. Truthfully, he doesn’t know whether he’s saying it to correct the other man or to make himself feel better about rushing to his aid like some sort of mithering mother. 

“Yeah, well, it must’ve moved,” Callum jokes back, a faint blush blooming high on his cheeks, lips pressed in an embarrassed smile.

“Right, ’course.” 

The silence returns, crackling with tension. They’re stood so close that their breath is mingling between them and Ben is suddenly overly aware of where his hands are cupping Callum’s sides, just under his arms, skin warm even through the fabric of his shirt. He goes to pull them away, but it’s as though he’s magnetised and he ends up trailing them slowly down Callum’s sides, grazing over every dip and curve until they land on the protrusion of his hips, resting there. Callum remains quiet, savours the feel of Ben’s hands on him, something he’s been craving so much it’s started to physically hurt ever since that night in the park, has to stop his eyes drifting shut at the sensation, but doesn’t push for more, knows it’s not the time.

“Are you-” Ben starts but his voice is husky and laden with something that he tries hard to ignore, so he clears his throat and starts again, softer this time. “Are you gonna be alright to walk home?”

Callum smiles, seemingly touched by the concern. “I think I’ll manage. Just hope Stu’s drugged Rainie up some more so she don’t wake me at half three, clawing at the door again.” Upon Ben’s recoil of confusion he adds; “it’s a long story.”

Ben imagines, for a moment, what living with that lumbering, bald oaf and his demented girlfriend, while going through a life-changing identity crisis, must be like and feels a sudden, unexpected surge of sympathy. He thought Ian’s constant snide comments and Bobby’s skittish behaviour had been bad enough. 

“You could stay,” he suggests, quieter and more hesitant than he intended. “If you want,” hastily tacked on to the end, for fear of sounding desperate.

Callum’s double take would be amusing, if Ben didn’t suddenly feel so vulnerable.

“I mean,” he lifts one hand from Callum’s hip to scratch at his eyebrow, a nervous habit, eyes dropping to one of the buttons on Callum’s shirt, “save you almost killing yourself trying to get home in your state. And sounds like you’d get a better nights kip ’ere, anyway.”

Callum doesn’t answer straight away, whether he’s contemplating his answer or it’s just taking a while for the offer to sink through the alcohol, Ben can’t tell. He sways slightly beneath Ben’s grip, as though the hands on his hips are the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’d be alright with that?”

That almost makes Ben laugh; still can’t quite believe how oblivious the other man is to his feelings. He wants to tell Callum that he’s always alright with being near him, close to him, that the last thing he wants to do is let him go stumbling home, alone, in the dark. 

“Unless, Rainie scratching outside ya door late at night is something you’re in to? Dunno how we’d work with that, mind,” he quips instead, doesn’t think one of the rare times when he says something sincere should be when Callum’s complexion is slightly tinged green.

Callum seems amused by his answer, thankfully, ducking his head in the way he always does when he’s trying to conceal his bashful smile at one of Ben’s suggestive comments, eyes crinkling at the corners. The sight makes Ben’s chest constrict with a fondness he hasn’t felt in a long time; it reminds him of how far they’ve come in just a matter of weeks, thinks back to when he couldn’t even enter a room without the other man looking like he wanted the ground to open up beneath him.

He doesn’t leave, which is a good sign, but he doesn’t seem completely sure of how to accept the offer, either. 

“Come on, let’s get you in bed before you pass out in Sharon’s microwavable mash. I know I’m buff but even I can’t drag your arse all the way upstairs,” he inclines his head towards the door, leading out to the hallway, hands finally detaching themselves from Callum’s hips. 

He takes a step towards the door, assumes the decision has been made, but Callum’s reaches out to grasp his arm, stopping him in his tracks and making him turn back around. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been presumptuous, pushed a bit too hard too soon, and if the worried look in Callum’s eyes was anything to go by, he’d done it again. 

Callum’s hand skims down his forearm, catches his hand loosely instead, fingers almost intertwined but not quite. Ben tries to suppress the shiver that runs through him at the touch, feels like a bloody teenager touching a boy for the first time, all over again. 

“What about-”, Callum smacks his lips together, like he’s changed his mind about asking the question halfway through. Ben hooks their fingers tighter, hopes it comes off as encouraging. It works. “What about your dad?” 

The question surprises him at first; why would Phil pose such a pressing concern to Callum? But, then he thinks of how much he’s told Callum about all the stick he’s gotten off his old man for liking blokes, about how much Phil has looked down all the men he’s ever been with, about the type of dad that Callum grew up with, and suddenly he can see why it might be so worrying. 

“If he can turn a blind eye to Louise and her lap dog dry humping in front of the 10 o’clock news every night then he can cope with me letting you stay over.” This time, Callum doesn’t look quite so amused by his attempt at a joke, if anything his frown just deepens. “Anyway, I reckon he actually quite likes you.”

The way Callum’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline makes Ben think he disagrees. 

“He remembered your name the other day, believe me that’s something.” That seems to do the trick. Callum finally takes a step away from the back door, wobbly but hesitant, and Ben gives his hand a light tug, urging him closer. “Alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Callum makes his mind up, a shy smile gracing his features when he makes eye contact. 

Ben tries not to let his delight show on his face, instead leads Callum out into the hallway, tries not to focus too much on the warmth of the other man’s larger hand in his own. The rest of the house is quiet, everyone else tucked up in bed, in a way that’s become unusual to Ben after months of living with a small army of people in the Beale house. 

The Mitchell residence had always been fairly quiet in comparison; Denny wasn’t exactly the loudest kid in the world, Sharon was always out doing something or other despite how little time she seemed to spend at work anymore, and the relative peace had only increased since Louise and her pet had moved in with Mel and Lisa. If anything, he’s surprised by how much he finds him missing the chaos of living across the square; Lexi waking him up at the crack of dawn, barging in to his bedroom like a bull in a china shop, bouncing up and down on top of his sleeping form until he’d tackle her to the mattress and overwhelms her with tickles, Ian pecking his head every time he so much as touched anything in the general vicinity of the kitchen, his mum’s exasperated sighs and half-hearted scolding whenever he made a crude remark in front of Bobby. 

Getting Callum up the stairs is easier than he’d anticipated; despite his inebriated state, the other man seems mostly in control of his limbs, and although it takes longer than it should (Callum having to concentrate hard on every step before he takes it) they make it up to the landing without incident. Ben decides not to mention how their hands have remained tangled together the entire time. 

Luckily Ben’s bedroom is located before his dads or Denny’s and so he manages to usher Callum inside without fear of waking them up. It’s only when the door is shut behind them and Callum is hovering unsteadily in the middle of the room, that Ben realises how strangely intimate this is. Callum might’ve seen all there was to see of his body, might’ve held him when he thought he was going to die, but for some reason this is the most vulnerable Ben had ever felt around the other man; stood in his childhood bedroom, posters of Justin Timberlake and Girls Aloud, that he’d never bothered to take down, plastered to his walls, dvd copies of his favourite musicals piled on a shelf, framed photos of him, baby-faced and smiling behind thick-rimmed glasses, dressed up in ridiculous, glittery costumes with Louise. 

Foolishly, he hopes that Callum is too tipsy to take much notice of his surroundings, but when his gaze shifts over to him, he’s staring around in deep concentration, inspecting every inch of the room, an open expression on his face that Ben isn’t accustomed to; a mix between fondness and awe. 

“Never had much time to redecorate, I guess,” Ben interrupts the quiet, shifts his weight, fingers fidgeting in Callum’s grip. Suddenly, this seems like the worst idea he’s ever had. 

He waits for the reaction he’s been dreading; the scoff, the ridicule, the disgust. Waits for Callum to realise that he’s nothing like the front he presents to the world, that underneath it he’s just a sad kid desperate for approval. 

But it never comes. Instead Callum squeezes his hand, tugging him forward so suddenly that Ben has to steady himself against the taller man’s chest and looks down at him with such affection that Ben almost wilts under his gaze. 

“Not quite what I was expecting, but I like it,” he slurs slightly, some of the words jumbling together, but the sentiment is still there. And damned, if that wasn’t the last response Ben was expecting. He’s so used to people rejecting this part of him, the gentle, embarrassing parts, using it against him, having to bury it, hide it, that such a simple gesture of acceptance takes the wind out of him. 

And if a lump forms in his throat and he has to blink to clear the moisture clouding his vision, well that’s nobody else’s business. 

Before he can even think about it, he’s leaning up, free hand instinctively reaching to cup the Callum’s jaw, stubble scratching against his palm, and pressing his lips softly to the other man’s cheek, eyes fluttering closed as he does so. 

It’s a fleeting kiss, over so fast that Ben wouldn’t be surprised if Callum thought he’d imagined it in his alcohol-infused state, and if the way Callum’s own lips are parted, eyes brimming with emotion, is anything to go by, then it’s not just himself that Ben has surprised with his sudden display of affection. 

Ben shakes himself out of the sudden haze of tenderness that had overtaken him and steps back a fraction, worried that if he doesn’t put some space between them he’ll make another brash gesture which he’d end up regretting. Callum seems to understand, doesn’t appear upset by the sudden distance; if anything he still seems to be trying to process what had just happened, hand finally leaving Ben’s to reach up and brush the skin where his lips had just touched. 

“I’ll, um-” Ben scratches at his beard, moves towards the chest of draws in the corner of the room, “I’ll get ya something t’ change in to. Mind you, trousers on me ‘ll probably end up as shorts on you.”

He fishes through the draws, hears Callum whisper a quiet ‘thanks’ behind him, and looks for something that won’t be too uncomfortable for the other man to sleep in; although he suspects Callum would have no trouble sleeping through an air raid with how his eyelids have been drooping shut for the last twenty minutes. 

He throws the clothes he digs out at Callums chest, snapping him out of some deep thought.

“You change, I’ll grab ya some water; I weren’t joking when I said I ain’t cleaning your sick up again,” he smirks at the end, attempts to add some levity to his voice to try and mask the emotion that’s buried itself in his chest. 

Callum just smiles back and Ben forces himself to look away as he shrugs off his blazer and begins loosening his tie, leaving the room instead. 

When Ben returns, clasping a half-filled mug (it’d been the first thing to hand in the kitchen) of water, Callum has changed out of his work uniform, suit and shirt folded semi-neatly on the desk, and is staring curiously at the items and decorations around the room. Ben’s grey joggers act more as three-quarter lengths on him but seem loose enough to be comfortable and the plain black t-shirt fits well enough, if only exposing a slither of his stomach. 

Ben tries to ignore the way his breath catches in his throat at the sight of Callum in his clothes, overcome by an overwhelming feeling of domesticity. 

“Here,” he says to announce his presence, and Callum turns to face him, accepts the mug being offered. “Why aren’t I surprised that you’re a nosy bugger?” 

Callum chuckles, a tad embarrassed, but doesn’t apologise, which Ben thinks is progress. 

“Ain’t my fault, you’ve got some interesting stuff,” Callum nods towards Ben’s desk which is cluttered with objects, some that had only been put there recently, others that had been sat collecting dust for years. Ben forces himself not to tense up at the words, reminds himself that Callum’s not looking for something to use against him or searching for some sort of angle to get under his skin. 

Something specific captures Callum’s interest, what it is Ben can’t tell, and he reaches amongst the clutter to grab it, grinning so hard that dimples have carved themselves in to his cheeks. 

“I won’t lie, I didn’t have you down as the musical type,” Callum turns to face him fully, his features soft, tone teasing but containing to trace of mockery or accusation. Ben’s lips curl when he sees what exactly it is that Callum is holding, thinks back on halloweens where he’s donned a white t-shirt and leather jacket, written on the back of it himself, begged Louise to help him style his hair into the perfect quiff. 

“Are you telling me you didn’t have the hots for Danny Zuko?” 

“Nah,” Callum looks down at the copy of the Grease soundtrack he’s holding, looks lost in contemplation. Ben wonders if he’s pushed it too much, thinks maybe he isn’t quite at the stage yet where he’s ready to start discussing his gay awakening, but his doubts are immediately quashed when Callum continues; “I was definitely more of a Kenickie guy.”

Ben can’t help the burst of sudden, surprised laughter that escapes him, not having expected such a candid response. A wave of delight washes over him when he realises what a big thing that must be for Callum to tell him, tries not to dwell on how comfortable he must feel to be able to admit that. 

“Always liked a bit of rough, have ya?” Ben chuckles, watches the expressions that flitter across Callum’s face at the joke, clear that he remembers what Ben is referring to. 

“Maybe I have,” Callum breathes, runs his teeth over his lower lip, looks almost shy, as though he’s unsure whether or not that’s something he’s allowed to admit. It feels like an admission of sorts, and Ben appreciates the meaning behind it. 

“I’m gonna change,” Ben gestures over his shoulder, to what he isn’t sure, and Callum nods, eyes raking the length of Ben’s body before turning his back to him, returning to nosing through all his belongings. 

Ben strips down to just his boxers, wonders briefly how differently this scenario might play out were Callum sober, hopes one day he’ll find out, and throws on an old t-shirt, some faded band logo printed across the front. He deliberates putting on some pyjama bottoms, but decides that if Callum’s seen him with his underwear around his ankles in a public park, then he can handle seeing his bare legs, and he’ll only end up kicking them off in his sleep anyway. 

“You alright with just one pillow?” Ben speaks up as he begins pulling back the duvet on the bed, internally scolds himself for how soft he sounds. Callum turns, teetering slightly, from where he’d been flicking lazily through some car magazine he’d picked up. 

When there’s no answer to his question, Ben glances up from where he’s tucking the sheet back in, can’t help the satisfaction that floods him when he realises he’s being checked out. When he realises he’s been caught, Callum’s eyes snap up from where they’d been fixated on Ben naked thighs, tips of his cheeks burning red. 

“Like what you see?” Ben can’t resist. 

“Yeah,” Callum practically chokes out, voice husky, then seems to realise what he’s said, eyes widening to an almost comically large size. “I-I mean yeah, yeah, one pillow’s fine.” 

Ben smirks, gestures at the ready bed, but doesn’t say anymore, thinks he’s pushed it enough with the on-the-mark comments, doesn’t want to ruin Callum’s relaxed demeanour; after all, it seems to be a rare occurrence. 

Callum’s general awkwardness seems to be outweighed by his exhaustion and he eagerly climbs in to the side of the bed closest to him, feet not far from dangling over the edge. He fidgets around for a moment before getting settled, head sinking into the pillow, random strands of hair breaking free from their gelled structure, giving him a much softer, messier appearance. 

Ben finds himself staring, breath caught in his throat, unintentionally overcome by how natural this feels; Callum in his room, in his bed, in his clothes, as if they’re together. He thinks, maybe he wouldn’t mind going to bed next to this sight every night; isn’t sure whether that idea excites him or frightens him.

Callum’s eyes dropped shut practically the second he laid down, but they blink back open when he realises that Ben isn’t moving, and instead is just hovering next to the bed, eyeing the empty space. 

“What’s the matter?” Callum asks around a yawn. It looks like it’s taking a considerable amount of effort to not drift into unconsciousness, desperately fighting at the tiredness that’s taking over him. 

“I can sleep on the floor, if y’want?” 

“Ben,” another yawn, “you got shot. You ain’t sleeping on the floor.” Callum manages to look exasperated by the suggestion, even through his exhaustion, and he pats his hand against the space beside him on the mattress, like an invitation. 

“I ain’t been sleeping well, might disturb ya.” He doesn’t know why he’s arguing, is never usually one to turn down sharing a bed with a fit bloke, especially one he fancies, but something about Callum just makes him want to be careful, to be sure, dreads the thought of pushing him into doing something he’s uncomfortable with. 

“S’fine, I don’t mind.” His tone is adamant, despite the way his eyelids are drooping shut. 

Ben clicks his neck from side to side, hesitates another moment before making up his mind and crawling into the bed, pulling the duvet over himself as he does so, shoulders brushing against the other man’s solid form. Callum shuffles on to his side so that the two of them are lying face to face, legs almost but not quite touching beneath the sheets, and a breath that Ben hadn’t realised he’s been holding, escapes him. Somehow, this feels more intimate, more personal than any kiss they’ve shared or conversation they’ve had, lying there, no walls or masks or secrets between them, both at their most open. 

Callum seems pleased by Ben’s decision to get in the bed, and a satisfied smile blossoms on his face, but he stays quiet, doesn’t want to interrupt the almost sacred quiet that has fallen over them. Instead, he reaches out a tentative hand, ghosts his fingers slowly down the line of Ben’s jaw, takes his time to drag them across the broad planes of his shoulder, carefully follows the bend of his arm, before finally resting it over Ben’s hand, which lies flat between them. Ben watches the fixed concentration on his face as he does so, maps out the slope of his nose, the faint lines in his forehead that curve around what looks like a chicken pox scar, the rounded jut of his chin. When Callum’s hand touches his own, he turns his palm skyward, let’s their fingers tangle together. It isn’t until he draws his gaze away from the light splattering of freckles across the bridge of the other man’s nose, that he realises Callum has drifted off to sleep, his entire posture completely drained of tension in a way that Ben has seen before. 

He allows himself another moment to drink in the sight of the man before him, to appreciate the unparalleled intimacy of just sharing a bed with someone, thinks that maybe this is what’s been missing, the reason for the gaping, empty chasm in his chest every time he’s tried to distract himself with meaningless hookups and short-lived flings. Thinks that maybe, just maybe, Callum might be able to fill that gap.

That’s the last thought on his mind when he finally allows the tendrils of sleep to pull him under, tightening the curl of his fingers around Callum’s hand and whispering a quiet ‘“goodnight” into the darkness before dozing off.

**Author's Note:**

> i've been meaning to write something new for these two for ages! i have about 7 wip's going for them, but somehow this is the only thing i found the inspiration to write, so i hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> i'm @benscallum on twitter and @callumshighway on tumblr so feel free to come and let me know what you thought!


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